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ODE TO FRANCE 



ODE TO FRANCE 

BY 

RAYMOND WEEKS 







NEW YORK 
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 

AMERICAN BRANCH: 85 West 32wd Strbbt 

LONDON, TORONTO, MELBOURNE, AND BOMBAY 
HUMPHREY MILFORD 

1917 






Copyright, 1917 

BY 

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 
American Branch 



4o 



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'4i9!7 



The verses here published were written 
in France during the tragic months of 
August and September, 1914, and were 
then laid aside for a year, in the hope 
that the author might be able to improve 
them if he approached them somewhat as 
a stranger. They were several times re- 
vised at still later periods, a number of 
lines were omitted and a few added. The 
author owes a great debt of gratitude for 
invaluable criticisms and suggestions made 
by friends, among whom he desires to 
thank especially Mr. William T. Brewster, 
Mr. Francis Daniels, Miss Helen Harvitt, 
Miss Maud E. Temple and Mr. William 
P. Trent. 

New Yohk, 
November 1916. 



ODE TO FRANCE 

nn HE snow may melt and ice remain, 
^ The sleet may pass and leave the rain. 
The tempest cease, yet long shall thunder 
The sullen waves upon their crags. 
The sun at evening may go under, 
Yet leave upon the sky and plain 
The crimson glory of his flags, 
And old things still remain. 



(1) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

To thee, sweet France, we eager turn, 
Land where the deeds of old still burn, 
Land where the soul's supreme emotion 
In glorious action is exprest. 
Land where the patriot's deep devotion 
Includes a love for all who yearn 
To see their country's wrongs redrest. 
To thee, sweet France, we turn I 



(2) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

What nations grander heroes know 
Than thine who fell at Roncevaux? 
Impetuous Roland dared his fate, 
Nor wound his horn until too late. 
Then through the Pyrenean fog 
The wild horn spoke its monologue, 
While mist-hung mountains heard astounded 
The saddest message ever sounded. 
It ceast, and then began again 
Its weird lament for dying men. 
" To horse! to horse! " cried Charlemagne 
Before the sti rtled bivouac, 
And through the pass, with loosened rein, 
His white beard flowing in his train, 
(3) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

He led the furious army back: 
They found young Roland's body lying 
Face to the Spanish plain, where paynim 
hosts were flying! 



(4) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

What heroes ever equalled thine 

Who left their bones in Palestine, 

Or sank beneath the Middle- Sea, 

Clad in their arms of fleur-de-lis? 

Where maddest waves have ceast their 

talking, 
Under the ocean's endless rocking, 
They sleeping dream, when shadows ply, 
That fleets from France are sailing by. 
Godfreys and Baldwins, Lusignans, 
Sail on in quest of Saracens; 
Among the orient hills and valleys 
Shall they avenge the dead beside the 

sunken galleys! 

(5) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Forever glorious shall remain 

The image of the good Lorraine, — 

That Jeanne through whom the people 

stood 
One in her own white hardihood. 

When she was sold 

For foreign gold, 
When pitiless English lances gleamed. 

When prayers were said, when rang her 
knell. 
The burning of her body seemed 

The burning of her soul as well. 
Her ashes to the river cast. 
The country's foes could sleep at last ; 
(6) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Glad bells were rung and masses said: 
The Maid and Liberty were dead! 
Of all the heroines of time 

That came to comfort and to save, 
The rarest one, the most sublime, 
Has never had a grave. 
Stars were not bright enough to light her, 
Flowers were not sweet enough to dight 

her, 
Lips were not pure enough to name her, 
Nor seraphim among their host to claim 

her! 
When from the fury of this hideous earth 



(7) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

The poor child vanisht, none could un- 
derstand 
That from a doom like hers should come 
new birth, 
Yet this land is her land, 
A gift exceeding fair. 

We walk her fields, we see her sun, we 
breathe her air! 



(8) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

The startled nations call aloud: 

"The Huns! the Huns!" 
And in a dreadful occultation, 
Europa through a midnight cloud 
Drifts pale athwart the conflagration 

Of blood-red suns. 
Take courage, France! 'Tis not in vain 
That ancient glories still remain! 

Since times of old, 
Thou art the adamantine wall 
Where tides barbaric beat and fall, 
And backward to their source are rolled. 



(9) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

If France another nation were, 

Prophetic bards would cry to her: 

"Awaken from their sepulchre 

Thy Roland and thine Oliver!" 

But France's heroes are not dead! 

Theirs is no asphodelian bed! 

'No couch of dreams with poppies spread 

Enslaves their noble limbs! 
Clad in the soldier's red and blue, 
Marching they sing the hymn of hymns, 

The splendid Marseillaise, 
That binds their present courage to 

A thousand yesterdays! 

(10) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

The trumpet's blare 
Thrills through the air, 

Adown the village street. 
List to the hum 
Of the resonant drum, 

Hark to the tramping feet! 

Hark to the fifer's fife, 

That with its piercing breath. 
Leads to triumph and death 

The bands of glorious strife! 
The houses tremble 
Beneath the rumble 

Of long artillery trains, 

And the pageantried story 

(11) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Of cavalrymen's glory- 
Gleams in the window panes. 

Because of thee, 

O la belle patrie. 
Our men and the Huns together 
Fall in a red embrace among the autumn 
heather. 



(12) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Oh! let the virgins and their mothers scream, 
The flaming village in the midnight gleam, 
The bullets patter 'mong the Red Cross 

nurses. 
The tortured wounded die with groans and 

curses ! 
Let boys courageous, stood against a wall, 
Before their shrieking sisters stagger, fall! 
Let women and their children, driven on, 
Protect the charging line of German 

brawn. 
And die the death of martyrdom sublime 
To tell of German shame upon the page of 

time! 

(13) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Let such things be, 

That sooner Liberty- 
May rouse indignant millions to thine aid, 
O noble France, who in a new crusade 
Shall join their forces as of old to thee, 
Thou patroness of justice and of right. 
Adorer of the beautiful and true. 

Defender of the few 
Against the brutal many and their might! 



(14) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Behind thine armies stand the spirits blest 

Toiling at home — ^the old, the frail, the 
young. 
Who shall be laurel-crowned, and on their 
breast 

The sapphires of the gods be hung. 
Count not as idleness their life austere 

Of trailing griefs and sighs! 
Count not as emptiness a single tear 

From their heroic eyes! 
The silent soldiers of that shadowy host 

Contend in unseen battles, fall unwept, 
Yet where applauding angels gather most 

The record of their victory is kept. 
(15) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Then fly away, fly away, letter! 

Go bear in war your part. 
No other messenger could better 
Break a poor mother's heart. 
Bear away, letter, to eyes that yearn 
The name of the beloved who never shall 
return! 



(16) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Fly, needle, in the sombre cloth. 

Through its meshes flashing ! 
Ply, needle! Sew the solemn troth 

Where her tears are plashing! 
These threads for the baby hands, 

These for the little feet. 
These for his curly, golden strands, 

These for his voice so sweet. 
And these. Oh! these 
Are for his eyes when he lay laughing on 

her knees. 



(17) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

A year from this September night, 

There will be countries where as now 
The women walk in robes of white. 

With joy upon their brow. 
But thine, O France, shall sable go 
Amid the twilight afterglow. 
Belated children, playing, screaming, 
Shall cease their cries before the dreaming 
Of eyes which at the distance stare. 
And we shall reverent pass the mute de- 
spair 
Of black veils flowing, blowing, 
Sowing, sowing 
Sorrow in the balmy air. 
(18) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Those stricken women do not speak. 
They hear with pale and paler cheek 
The mortal rain of lead that smote 
A soldier in a faded coat, 
And we would kiss the noble hem 
Of the trailing, raven robe of theml 
Heroic spirits in the isle 

Of the haunting fields elysian, 
And they who perish file on file 

In the Valley of Decision 
Shall worship your pathetic face, 
O lonely daughters of the race. 

Eyes of the shattered vision. 

Lips of the broken smile 1 
(19) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Let it not be in vain, O beauteous Death, 

That men for justice died! 
The valley of the shadow holdeth them. 
And to the names we sob none answereth. 
The roar of battle was their requiem. 
The night is long; our tears alone abide. 
Let it not be in vain, O beauteous Death! 



(20) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Thy glorious dead, O France, have spread 
their pinions 

For flight no tongue can tell. 
Toward the sublime, scarce-tenanted do- 
minions 

Where ancient heroes dwell, 
But thou remainest still inviolate, 
And, as the light of suns, immaculate. 
Thou angel ministrant of peace. 
Thou goddess-sister of dead Greece, 
Majestic mother of the nations. 

That listenest to their sobs. 
While to their loftiest aspirations 

Thy generous bosom throbs! 
(21) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Thou singest to races in chains 
Old songs with sweet refrains, 
And to reminiscent tears 
New songs of future years. 
Imperious, thou stayest the hand of crime, 
Intrepid, thou sayest "No!" to time. 
Thou seest, beyond the storm that flies, 
The glow of other suns, the calm of other 
skies! 



(22) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

Thou guidest with sure hand thy steadfast 
bark 
Where the impetuous waves of ocean roll, 
And buildest on the bosom of the dark 

A minaretted city for the soul. 
Ay! we have turned unto the light supernal 
That beams from high-impassioned mother 
eyes, 
And found, enclaspt within thine arms 
eternal, 
The refuge of the breast which sanctifies I 



'(23) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

And now when foes beset thee, 
Shall we, thy sons, forget thee? 

Lo! we who swore thee 

Our love, adore thee! 

Our hosts surround thee, 

Our swords imbound thee. 
We serried march before thy bleeding feet, 
And with unflinching hearts thy foes shall 

meet. 
Yea, we shall die! but thou shalt ever live. 
Remembering us thy children, who could 
give 

To Liberty and thee 
All that the soul may have or hope to be 
(24) 



ODE TO FRANCE 

This side of silence and the silken veil. 

In ecstasy we cry, 

Even as those who die : 
"Hail, thou sweet France, our mother! haill 
all hail!" 



(25) 



33 W 



